Cinematic Reel
by moelock
Summary: Sherlock fell, hit the ground, and remembered his life with John Watson. The memories played out in his mind like a movie. Oneshot. Warning: Character death and major spoilers.


**Title:** Cinematic Reel  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sherlock fell, hit the ground, and all he could do was remember his life with John Watson. The memories played out in his mind like a movie. Oneshot.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Major character death; major spoilers for _The Reichenbach Fall_.  
><strong>Pairing(s): <strong>None

**A/N:** AUGH GOD. This was meant to be quite depressing, but it really didn't turn out to be as sad as I wanted it to be (gosh, that makes me sound like a terrible person). I've been wanting to get out my Reichenbach feelings for quite some time, but never got around to it. Now, here it is.

As always, thank you for reading and please review if you have the time.

* * *

><p><em>CINEMATIC REEL<em>

* * *

><p>"Goodbye, John."<p>

Sherlock bit his lip as the anxiety and panic of what he was about to do suddenly hit him. A lump formed in his throat as he realized that despite his condemnation for all the caring lark, he had made the grave mistake of caring a little too much for the people around him. It hurt to leave when it really shouldn't have hurt at all. He felt the tears collect in his eyes and freely roll down his cheeks when he said his parting words. Sherlock mindlessly tossed his phone to the side and it hit the surface of the cold building roof without hesitation. He counted the time (exactly one second) before he heard the _click clack_ of it landing, the glass screen cracking. He couldn't help but smile wryly at the irony of the situation. Surely it would take him longer than one second, but in the end, he would be as fragile and broken as his mobile. He soared so high at one point and for what?

He heard John call his name. That was all he needed.

Sherlock lifted his arms as if he were spreading his wings, but rather than jumping off to fly, he simply leaned forward. His eyes flickered to John and held his friend's shocked, confused, desperate gaze that silently screamed for him to stop for as long as he could, before the fall forced his eyelids to flutter shut. That wasn't the last thing he wanted to see; Sherlock didn't want to see John looking like that, he wanted for John to smile, but he had rationalized a mourning John – surely John would mourn for him – was far better than a dead John.

The concrete seemed to rise to meet him. He felt his skull crack. He felt every bone in his body shatter. He felt his hair dampen in burning crimson blood and he felt the life leave him far too quickly for his astute mind to comprehend. He tried to turn his head to catch one last look at John. _Just one more time._ But he couldn't do it. His eyes swivelled around aimlessly; he couldn't even close them. He had lost complete control over his body.

Sherlock tried to run away from the pain, from the cold fact that he felt himself dying. His eyes remained open, but within a few seconds, his vision had gone black. He shuffled through his memories, looking for a distraction during his last few moments. A million thoughts could have run through his mind, but instead he could think of no one but John Watson. If he had the strength to, he would have cried out John's name with the same desperation John had shouted his.

* * *

><p>The memories played out in his mind like a movie.<p>

* * *

><p>One time, they had talked about their names. Sherlock had always loved the sound of John's name on his lips and loved his name on John's even more. Just the same, John had always loved the sound of Sherlock's name on his lips and loved his name on Sherlock's even more.<p>

"John?"

"Sherlock?"

"I've noticed something."

They were eating dinner at Angelo's that night. Sherlock had just finished a case having to do with a mysteriously missing blue sapphire stone and had actually allowed himself a meal since he could finally afford to go through the tedium that was digestion. Both of them ate their food in comfortable silence until now.

John stuck his fork in his mouth and drew back a mouthful of spaghetti. He spoke in between chews, "Noticed what?"

"How much you seem to enjoy saying my name."

John choked on a noodle sliding down his throat. He quickly grabbed for his glass of water and chugged it down. "What is that supposed to mean?" he croaked.

"You say my name. Quite frequently."

John stared in stunned silence. He really didn't know where Sherlock was going with this. "Sorry, let me know if there's another way you want me to address you. Consulting detective Holmes, maybe?"

Sherlock elaborated, "So far, I've recorded two distinct ways you say my name. Would you like to hear?"

John shrugged and sat back, setting his utensils down. That last noodle getting caught halfway down his oesophagus was traumatic enough to keep him from taking another bite any time soon, "Even if I say no, you're going to tell me." He felt like he was going to regret this. As much as he felt a pleasant rush of fascination overcome him every time Sherlock made a deduction – even if it was of John – there were some things he was uncomfortable hearing. Sherlock didn't have the greatest grasp on personal space or on the concept of holding your tongue and when he was riding on the euphoria of his inferences, the filter in his brain seemed to shut off completely.

Sherlock gave a smug grin in affirmation, "The first one is simple. How you say my name on a regular basis. Go ahead, John. Give a demonstration."

John's lips tightened into a thin line. Really, he was going to do this? "Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head, "Mmm, a little off, considering you're obviously irritated I asked you to do that," another smirk, "but close enough. Did you hear it?"

"Sounded like how I normally talk."

"There's a slight inflection in your voice when you say my name. You don't say Molly's, Stamford's, Mycroft's, Lestrade's, Mrs Hudson's, anyone else's name like that. Only mine. Though I'm hearing you, it's almost as if you _touch_ me with your words." Sherlock was now leaning forward, his elbows on the table and fingers laced together under his chin. His eyes were narrowed, focusing on John, focusing on the auditory memories he kept neatly tucked away in his mind palace (because everything that was John Watson was of the utmost importance).

John cleared his throat, "Okay." His quiet tone relayed his discomfort and lack of interest in the matter. But Sherlock continued on.

"The second. When you're relieved to see me," Sherlock lowered his voice, "It's barely above a whisper. You _breathe_ out my name and it comes out quickly, as if you were just _waiting_ for the opportunity to say it. When a child is hurt or in a state of panic, the first person they typically reach out for is their mother. The first person you reach for is me."

"You're assuming I need you in my life." John could see where this was going now.

"You know I never assume."

John rolled his eyes, "Yes, of course."

There was actually a third way John said Sherlock's name and he said it this way only once before, when the only thing running through his mind was _You're not dying, not while I'm around_. He shouted; his voice was hoarse and his neck strained to call even louder, so Sherlock would snap out of his daze, out of the high of the chase, and turn around and look at John, really see that he was a downright idiot for trying to take that pill; that he was a downright fool for thinking that there wouldn't be anyone to cry for him if he was gone.

John never wanted them to ever reach the point where he had failed so badly and Sherlock would be in such danger.

Danger was always around the corner with Sherlock Holmes. After all, when you walked the streets with him, you saw the battlefield and anyone knew that if the battlefield was anything, it was unpredictable. But even so, if John could keep himself close enough to Sherlock, both in body and in spirit, then he believed he could protect him. Never did John think he would have to call Sherlock's name with such urgency again; he never thought the day would come when he called Sherlock's name and got no response.

* * *

><p><em>Fuck<em>, Sherlock's body felt like absolute shit. Was there such a thing as being numbed by enough pain? Sherlock tried to breathe, but it was like his lungs were drowning, _Maybe in blood_, he vaguely thought. Death never elicited any sympathy from Sherlock. Even now, he was probably feeling more apathetic towards it all than he should have. The panic had faded and he had accepted his demise. But as the memories continued to flood his mind, he felt his chest constrict._ It's from the fall_, he tried to convince himself, but he was dying. It was now acceptable to succumb to the sentiment he had grown to despise. He came to the conclusion that what his heart was doing was crumbling under the sadness, regret, and ardent hope that maybe, somehow he could survive this and he could call John's name. Oh what he would do to say "John" _just one more time_.

* * *

><p>They finished their meal at Angelo's and returned to 221B. After an hour, at about 8PM, Mrs Hudson clambered up the stairs with her signature kitten-like steps and knocked on the open door with a high-pitched <em>Woo-hoo<em>. She carried in with her a batch of freshly baked biscuits.

Sherlock and John were watching some "crap telly", each holding a mug of earl grey tea in their hands.

"Brought you boys a little snack." She set the tray on the table. "How was dinner?"

"You really are a saint, Mrs Hudson, thank you." John began, "Dinner was great, as usual. Angelo really knows how to cook."

"Yes, his knowledge in food is almost as refined as his house-breaking abilities. Don't just stand there, Mrs Hudson. Please leave or if you must, have a seat." Sherlock took a sip of his tea and gave a small smile, hinting that he meant nothing personal by what he said; it was, in fact, his idea of a joke.

Mrs Hudson understood and replied warmly, "I'll leave you two alone. I just came by to give you these since I had some left over."

"Mmm," Sherlock nodded and turned his attention to the television. A zombie was currently eating the brains out of his human prey.

Mrs Hudson turned on her heels and headed back down the stairs.

John craned his neck to make sure he couldn't see Mrs Hudson anymore. When the coast was clear, he brought up the subject at the restaurant, "You think I need you in my life."

Sherlock's gaze shifted over to John and looked at him with a burning intensity, "I _know_."

_You're right_, John thought to himself, but he didn't dare say that out loud. "You say my name a lot, too."

Sherlock quirked his eyebrows and broke away, staring at the liquid in his mug, blowing at the rising steam. "Do I?"

"If I was as clever as you, I probably would have kept a tally of how often you've said it, but I haven't. I'll start now, just to prove my point."

"Look, John –"

"One." John interrupted.

"No, John –"

"Two."

"John!"

"Three."

Sherlock growled angrily and his hand rose to clamp over John's mouth, "Shut up. I admit I say your name a lot, but there's a perfectly reasonable explanation and I assure you it is completely void of any kind of _feelings_."

"Really now?" John said, muffled by Sherlock's hand.

"Yes."

John grabbed Sherlock's wrist and pried his hand away. Sherlock retracted his arm and sank back into his chair, but he remained tense and his eyes continued to bore daggers into John's face.

"So?" John pressed on.

"What?" Sherlock retorted, defensive.

"C'mon, lead me through it."

Sherlock remained obstinate, "There's nothing to explain."

"You explained it pretty well before."

Sherlock looked away and stared into the fireplace, "That's different." He began to drum his fingers along the chair's arm.

"Fine, then I'll tell you. I haven't been as observant as you have, since I never really thought much of it, but you have a certain way of saying my name too. Every time you say it, it's like you're saying it for the first time, with a lot of care." John took a hot gulp of his tea.

"You're saying that I care for you."

John tilted his head, "Do you?" He asked, smiling expectantly, but not really hoping for anything.

He was surprised when Sherlock responded mater-of-factly with a curt "Yes".

* * *

><p>"Oh, God…" John breathed as he saw Sherlock fall. <em>God, no. No no no no nononononono.<em> It was a plea. John was pushing this one string of thought so hard, repeating it in his head like a mantra, it nearly gave him a migraine. This couldn't possibly be happening; it must've been a dream – a nightmare. He watched, willing his feet to _move, _to run to Sherlock, somehow sprint fast enough to break his fall.

But John's feet remained planted firmly to the ground. "Stay where you are," Sherlock had asked of him; it was his final request. (_No, no, it's not. Don't even think that._) God, he was falling so fast, yet so slow.

John couldn't imagine how frightening that must have been.

Wait, that wasn't completely true; he had an idea of what it felt like. But he wasn't alone.

* * *

><p>One day, in a means to dissipate his frustrating boredom, Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and pushed him out the door and into a cab, without a single word. Unfortunately used to being taken to unknown places by car before, John didn't ask any questions.<p>

When the cab drove up to a very tall, very daunting bungee tower, John couldn't keep quiet anymore. He stared up at the looming structure and gasped, "What the hell is that?"

"We are going to go bungee jumping." Sherlock flashed a toothy grin, his face radiating with childlike excitement.

John's heart sank into his stomach, "Right… right. Bungee jumping."

"Could be dangerous." Sherlock gave his usual warning.

John clenched his fists together, released, clenched them again, took in a few deep breaths, and gave his body a shake. "What's new?"

"Ready?" Sherlock asked with a smirk. John nodded. They made their way to the tower, the cab driving off behind them.

If John thought the view from below the structure was scary then view from the top of it was absolutely horrifying. His eyes grew wide of their own accord and his eyebrows seemed to fuse with his hairline. They had all their equipment hooked on. The instructors had already given them their pep talk, giving an encouraging smile every time they made eye-contact with John.

"So, how high up is this tower, exactly?" John piped.

"100 meters."

John exhaled, "Okay. Okay."

Sherlock gave him a pat on the back. "Remember, you invaded Afghanistan."

John let out a nervous laugh, "I didn't have to jump 100 meters to get there."

Sherlock chuckled, "Don't worry. You won't be jumping alone."

John looked up at Sherlock. There was complete trust between them. John trusted Sherlock with his life and Sherlock trusted John with his.

They walked to the edge together. John peeked his head over the bridge, "At least there's water."

"Individually, hydrogen bonds are weak, but when bonded together in that quantity, your bones will more than likely shatter completely. It's no different than having a ground of concrete down there." Sherlock rattled off the facts as if it were nothing. He was completely calm about this!

John, of course, knew as much. He was a doctor, after all. Chemistry was a necessity in his profession. Still, he groaned when hearing the information presented to him during such a crucial moment, "Thanks for that, Sherlock."

"Sorry. That probably didn't help."

"No, it really didn't."

They turned to face each other.

"We're really going to do this?" John asked.

"Oh, yes." Sherlock stepped forward and drew John in with his arms. John followed his action and wrapped is own arms around Sherlock's torso. They held on tightly to one another. John felt Sherlock lean sideways, ready to dive. His heart pounded in his ears. Now that he was closer to Sherlock, it was almost as if his friend's eagerness was being channelled into him.

John didn't have nearly enough time to collect his thoughts when Sherlock tipped over and dragged him along. The instructor hadn't even told them to jump yet.

John let out an undignified yelp as they dropped faster than he could've imagined. He forced his eyes to stay open and kept his face pressed against Sherlock's chest, while Sherlock threw his head back and relished in the feeling. A gust of wind rushed up to meet them and made their eyes dry. The only sound he heard was of Sherlock's overjoyed cackling. It was almost manic but hearing the smooth baritone _wooping _with such uncharacteristic enthusiasm was enough to make John think the jump was worth it. Plus, he had to admit; the surge of energy welling up in him the moment they fell was indescribably delicious. After what seemed like forever, the cord reached its end and abruptly pulled them back, oscillating until it finally stopped.

They let go of each other and dangled above the water. Sherlock beamed at John and was positively glowing. They both burst into a fit of giggles.

Thirty seconds later, an instructor was lowering them down into an inflatable boat. The two were still laughing and catching their breath by the time they were rowed back to the tower. Free of their equipment, they rested at the facility's lobby over two cans of coffee from the vending machine.

"Thank God that cable didn't break," John said.

Sherlock hummed into the can as he drank his coffee.

"That was absolutely ridiculous. I can't believe I let you go through with it."

"You had fun." Sherlock commented.

"Yeah, so did you."

A smile crept over Sherlock's face, "Excellent deduction."

They sat side-by-side on a wooden bench pushed up against the wall. A male and female couple were sitting on the bench left of them, jittery with excitement and apprehension ("Newlyweds. Interesting that they picked this spot for their honeymoon getaway." Sherlock whispered to John when the pair first walked in.) To their right was a group of teenagers, huddled together and talking animatedly amongst each other. ("Probably in their first year of university. Yes, even that one, though he looks significantly older than the rest. All of them are reading physics. Couldn't you tell?")

"John?" Sherlock began after a while of coffee drinking.

"Hmm?"

"What is your take on death?" The question was asked in a flat tone.

John whipped his head around to get a good look at Sherlock's face. His expression was collected, but he wasn't looking back at John. He was staring straight ahead, far off in to some infinite distance. "Well, it's inevitable. But it doesn't make me think it's not unfortunate just because it's bound to happen. I've seen a lot of people die. Friends of mine, really good men and women."

When Sherlock didn't say anything, John filled the gap, "What's this about?"

"What if I ever died? Not by natural causes."

John blinked a couple times, "Why are you saying this?"

"No reason. Just… curious. Would you miss me?" Finally, he broke his gaze away from the wall and met John's eyes. His expression was still calm, but there was something different; there was something sad.

"Of course." John answered immediately, voice steady and loud enough for Sherlock to hear his sincerity, but soft enough so that it was only meant for his ears. "But that's not going to happen, you know. It's never going to happen, not while I'm around."

Then, the sadness was masked by gratitude, "Good old Doctor Watson. Can always count on you."

* * *

><p>People were coming to his aid now. Sherlock could hear them crowding around him, muttering words that all just blurred together. They kept a reasonable distance, unsure of what to do. Some were sensible enough to get help from St. Bart's. But Sherlock didn't need any of them. <em>Did John see me fall? Did he see me hit the ground? John, where is he… John…<em>

Sherlock's heart was rapidly slowing down, straining itself to pump out what little blood wasn't gushing out of his body. His senses were dying off, one by one, as his life was gradually coming to an end.

Sherlock was letting go. He had nothing left to hold on to.

But in the midst of the chaotic crowd came John's voice. It was like a gunshot piercing through the air; nobody could ignore it, not even Sherlock – _especially_ Sherlock.

"He's my friend…!" Sherlock heard John say, voice raspy with settling grief and disbelief.

_Oh,_ _John_, Sherlock thought, _My dear John Watson._

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, watch out!"<p>

Their attacker was charging towards them, but before he could thrust his hidden knife into Sherlock's back, John stepped in between them. He was quick enough to shield Sherlock, but too slow to disarm the man. The blade pierced through John's coat and skin and plunged deep inside just below his left ribcage. He let out a strangled cry, grabbed the hilt of the blade and kicked the assailant with incredible force. The man stumbled back and fell. John staggered back into Sherlock's open arms. Sherlock slowly kneeled down, propping John up against his own body, "John? John, are you all right?" Sherlock asked, stricken with fear that this time, the wound may have been too much.

"Yeah," John managed to choke out, but he really wasn't fine. He couldn't have Sherlock be distracted, though, not when the man they were after was still conscious. The man was on the floor, a few feet away from them, rolling about, clutching at his stomach and struggling to get up, but he was definitely getting there. John weakly lifted his arm, pointing to the attacker.

Sherlock's head snapped up and his eyes locked on his target. He gently laid John down and stood back up. Sherlock let out a feral snarl and lunged forward, tackling the man just as he found the strength to stand back on his feet. They toppled over together. Before the assailant could snap out of his daze, Sherlock's clenched fist met with his jaw. Straddling the man, Sherlock continued to beat the attacker completely senseless. In a matter of seconds, he was rendered into a bloody, half-dead, unconscious mess, but Sherlock didn't stop until John weakly called his name.

Pulled out of his hysteria by the sound of John's voice, Sherlock rushed over to John's side again, taking hold of his hand and squeezing it tightly. Sherlock's face was covered by the attacker's blood, as were his gloves, but John didn't mind. Honestly, it was almost endearing. John's hand remained clutched around the knife. If it was removed, the blood loss would be too great and already, his shirt and coat were soaked. He took in deep breaths. Sherlock whipped out his phone from his pocket and dialled Scotland Yard. The moment Lestrade answered, Sherlock began with "John is hurt" which seemed to be enough for the Detective Inspector to immediately list a series of orders to his "least irritating" men. Sherlock gave their location and then hung up.

It was fucking freezing. Sherlock took off his thick coat and set it over John, tucking it under his body. He gingerly lifted John's head and rested it on his lap.

"John, I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated over and over again, his black curls hanging over his face, his hands hovering awkwardly over John, unsure of what to do, afraid of hurting him even more.

"Don't worry, I've had worse," John said, taking in a sharp breath.

Sherlock seemed to get a hold of himself again. He mimicked John's action and also wrapped his free hand around the knife, pressing down over the wound to help prevent more blood loss. He didn't know what else he could do; this was one of those rare moments when Sherlock felt useless and it was positively infuriating.

"Lestrade is on his way with an ambulance. You'll be all right." Sherlock's eyes went from John's face, to the wound, to John's face, to the wound, back and forth, back and forth. Sherlock's voice shook and his lips trembled every time he spoke but it wasn't because of the cold.

Sherlock continued to make small talk and while he had made it imperative that John shouldn't respond to save energy, he also demanded "John, keep your eyes open. Keep them open, just focus on me." He commented on the weather, on Mrs Hudson's cooking, how John would definitely miss her food if he was to die right now, how the world would be so boring and meaningless if John weren't there, and finally, with a forlorn laugh, how his own life would lack any sort of thrill if John was gone. "Who's going to blog about me? No one could make up such horrendous and tacky titles, John. Nobody but you."

It took 15 minutes for Lestrade and his men to arrive. "John, they're here," Sherlock declared. John managed to nod. Filled with relief, his consciousness slipped away. "John? John?" Sherlock was being pulled away and John was being carried on a stretcher. Before he and Sherlock were separated, though, John could have sworn he felt a drop of something wet fall onto his face.

John decided not to mention it when he woke up in the hospital two days later and saw Sherlock sitting by his bedside, head hanging in his hands, looking completely miserable.

* * *

><p>When John saw Sherlock hit the ground, it felt as if a truck rammed up against him and continued speeding away without remorse. The emptiness left by the realization that Sherlock had actually gone through with this and the reality of it all came crashing down at him.<p>

It seemed his legs were willing to move now. He started off at a small jog. His legs felt like noodles. John didn't even notice the biker approaching him. They collided head on and John was knocked over. He hit the gravely road painfully – _Sherlock would be in even more pain_ – and the world stopped turning. His body seemed to curl in on itself but he forced it to fold open again and picked himself up. Pushing past the people surrounding Sherlock, he reached out for him. He reached desperately through the people grabbing his arm, daring to keep them apart. John took Sherlock's wrist and his heart fell when he felt no pulse.

* * *

><p>But Sherlock felt John. He felt John's heat radiating through him for the last time. The rest of his body felt icy as the blood drained out of him, but that one place, that one spot on his wrist, was scalding hot and Sherlock thought that if he was to have a final memory, remembering John Watson's touch was a good way to go; it was the best way to go. A bittersweet pang pierced through his chest and one last thought passed through his mind as his heart came to a halting stop: <em>I'll miss you, John.<em>

* * *

><p>"God, no…" Everything moved in slow motion. John's fingers released their hold of Sherlock's cold – so cold – arm and it landed on the ground with a thud so loud, it resounded in John's ears. <em>Make it stop, somebody, make it stop. Sherlock, please, just make it stop.<em>

* * *

><p>The night after Sherlock Holmes' funeral, a young boy from the homeless network knocked on the door to 221B. John didn't answer, but Mrs Hudson did. The boy had brought a letter with him, addressed to John Watson. Mrs Hudson stepped into what was once his and Sherlock's flat, and handed John the letter. He was sitting in his chair, staring at Sherlock's empty one. John took the envelope and thanked his kind landlady. He couldn't have cared less for the post, but when Mrs Hudson said, "One of Sherlock's boys dropped it off," John couldn't have opened the letter faster. His fingers fumbled to open the simple envelope and he probably got a few paper cuts, but he ignored the stinging.<p>

Pulling out the stationary and unfolding it, he recognized the handwriting immediately. The letter was written completely in capital letters and it wasn't the best penmanship, but it was playful and legible.

_HELLO, JOHN. _

_I NORMALLY PRFER TO TEXT, BUT FOR YOU, I WAS WILLING TO GO THROUGH THE TROUBLE OF WRITING. I ALREADY LEFT MY NOTE TO YOU. THIS IS ANOTHER ONE. MY FIRST NOTE WAS A BIT INCOMPLETE. _

_IF YOU'RE READING THIS, THEN I REALLY AM DEAD. THERE ISN'T GOING TO BE A MIRACLE, NOT THIS TIME. _

_BUT JOHN, I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT I WILL MISS YOU TERRIBLY. I KNOW I WON'T BE GOING TO HEAVEN. YOU REMEMBER I TOLD THOSE CHILDREN ONE TIME DEAD PEOPLE ARE TAKEN TO A SPECIAL ROOM AND BURNED. THAT'S PROBABLY WHERE I'LL END UP. EITHER THAT, OR EATEN BY WORMS BENEATH THE GROUND. I REALLY HOPE YOU TOLD MYCROFT I WOULD PREFER TO BE CREMATED. DECOMPOSITION CAN BE SO DULL._

_JOHN, ARE YOU SAD? I THOUGHT I WOULD WANT YOU TO BE SAD, BUT I DON'T WANT YOU TO STAY SAD. COULD YOU CONTINUE TO LIVE YOUR LIFE? FOR ME. LIVE FOR THE BOTH OF US. _

_JOHN, BE HAPPY. BE HAPPIER THAN YOU COULD HAVE EVER IMAGINED YOURSELF TO BE. _

_JOHN._

_JOHN. _

_JOHN._

_I AM SORRY. FOR EVERYTHING. _

_THANK YOU. FOR EVERYTHING. _

_KNOW THAT YOU HAVE ALWAYS MEANT VERY MUCH TO ME. _

_KNOW THAT YOU WILL ALWAYS BE MY FRIEND. _

_AND BELIEVE ME, JOHN, TO BE VERY SINCERELY YOURS. _

_SHERLOCK HOLMES _

* * *

><p>Exactly three years later, John Watson is able to talk about his life with Sherlock more easily. In fact, whenever he speaks of Sherlock, his chest fills with pride and he never wants to stop talking. Even now though, it certainly hurt. The tears always welled up and got stuck in his throat before he swallowed them away.<p>

That morning, he visits Sherlock's grave. Usually, he went with Mrs Hudson, occasionally with Lestrade or with Molly, but today, he goes alone. He hadn't seen Mycroft in quite some time. Still, he reckoned that even with his busy schedule, the British government went to go visit his brother frequently.

John places his flowers on the grass that is still wet and shining with morning dew. Today, he was prepared to do more than just say "hello" and leave.

He nods a greeting, "I still don't know what to do with your things. It seems kind of wrong to throw them out. Until recently, I always got urges to just throw everything in the fire, but at the last minute, your stuff just seemed too precious to burn. You're gone. If your belongings were gone, too, then all I would have is a memory. And before you get cheeky with me, no, I'm never going to forget you. That could never happen. But I'll get old and things will just get fuzzy. You know how it is." John pauses and blinks. His eyes stung with the tears he didn't even know were there.

Still, he continues on, his voice shaking ever so slightly, "I got your letter. A long time ago, actually. Your writing is absolute shit, do you know that? You really should have stuck to texting. In case you couldn't tell, we did cremate you. I didn't have to tell Mycroft; he knew what you wanted." A tear rolls down his cheek and he takes a breath before continuing, "Mrs Hudson misses you. Lestrade does, too. He comes around the flat from time to time, asking me to help with cases. I usually just laugh, but sometimes I agree. You should have seen one of the cases he brought me. You would have loved it. Maybe it would disappoint you to say I couldn't solve it. Maybe you'd find it funny. Molly talks to me about you every time I see her. I see her a lot and in some ways, it's nice. I like talking about you. She's always telling me she misses you."

Another pause. John's mouth curls down into a quivering frown and his brows come together in sorrow. He inhales a shuddering breath and his voice breaks when he speaks again, "I miss you, you stupid idiot. God, I miss you so much, Sherlock." He lifts a hand over his face and finally lets out his muffled sobs, sinking down to the ground.

John stays by Sherlock's grave until night time, telling him about the past three years. Telling him everything he couldn't say before.

Eventually, he checks his watch and sees it's close to dinner. He stands and gives a small smile.

"I'll be back tomorrow. Goodbye, Sherlock."


End file.
